Wednesday, March 30, 2011

We don't need to bring up the list, do we? The roster of all the animals we've documented here in their ceaseless bid for death?

There's the Unholy Trinity (cows, pigs, and chickens), of course. And turkeys, geese, ostriches, and emus. Sheep and goats and buffaloes. Whales, fish, crabs, lobsters, crawfish, shrimp, octopuses, squids, clams, and oysters. Even sea urchins, ants, spiders, and worms. Kangaroos! Rabbits! Snakes! Bears! And don't forget the dog! (Search for them all on the site. Make an afternoon of it!)

Sometimes we have the feeling that all of creation is clamoring to die, to be rendered instantly forgotten. We must admit to a certain professional thrill when we find a hitherto unaccounted-for animal knocking on the great black door. So it is with a sour kind of excitement-mixed-with-depression that we present to you Alligator Bob and his reptilian lackey.

The gator is all about the business of being turned into food. He wears the toque. He's got the dipping ladle at the ready. He just wants to die in his brothy little swamp.

The look on his face seems to say, "Don't forget about the alligators! We are sick to death of living, too! We too hope to find our fulfillment, at last, when we have finally abandoned these bodies!"

We know mental illness is at work, festering in his brain, but for a moment, a foolish, fleeting moment, we almost feel happy for the poor thing.

Monday, March 28, 2011

You know those hilarious "Eat mor chikin" cows? (Hold on. We have to stop laughing. Almost. Just a sec. Okay. We're good.) Those scamps are "funny" because they are desperate to avoid being killed and eaten. They're just like people, what with their instinct for survival and their fear of pain. It's adorable!

This tom here is humorous in a whole different way. A whole different way we've only seen about a thousand times before.

Like the cows, the Canadian turkey edits a sign to upend the status quo. Of course, the system he wants to topple is the barbecue orthodoxy, which holds that turkeys aren't suitable ingredients. So you can understand the urgency.

The turkey derives meaning only from his desirability as a foodstuff. His one-bird crusade may seem quixotic. Irrational. Stupid. Insane. (We could go on.) But it's really the logical outcome of living in greater Suicidefoodistan.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

His eyes wide with innocence. His frank, good-natured face. His smile so ripe with gratitude.

It has to do with knowing that the world he has been born into—the world of Indian Emu Life Pvt. Ltd.—has been engineered expressly for the efficient exploitation of all his constituent parts. His thigh meat, yes, naturally, but it goes further than that. IEL has so much more to take from him: his feathers ("largely used for making pads, dusters, masks, and car cleaning brushes"), his "body leather," his "nails," and an oil derived from his fat, which can "protect the hair and scalp from dandruff."

This is why the emu chick, in his dawning moments of sentience, bubbles with pleasure. It's all for him! The compound surrounded by chain-link fencing, the iron or cement poles. (?) Everything has been made with him—or, more properly, the extraction of his bodily components—in mind. It gives him a feeling of safety and security. Peace, even.

And so, happy and humbled, he kicks off his eggshell and strides into life!

Thursday, March 24, 2011

We know we shouldn't find it remarkable that chickens engage in this hideous custom too. But we do, we do. We might have supposed—a nagging sense of decency still resisting everything we've seen here—that this practice couldn't continue.

Still, the evidence is plain: Some mama chicken has transmuted her motherly pride into a bloody campaign of poultricide.

Unless… You don't suppose this is just another example of birds happy to be raised, killed, packaged, and marketed by humans, to humans?

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

In the subculture that is World of Warcraft, skilled players can acquire a "vanity pet" known as Plump Turkey.

We have, until now, been immersed in our own noxious subculture, so this one has passed us by. As far as we can ascertain, players who "do" such-and-such are "rewarded" with a ridiculous bird who sacrifices himself at the first opportunity.

Where's the fantasy in that? Brain-damaged animals are everywhere in the real world. This planet is, apparently, littered with them!

This shows us, sadly, that the worlds of fantasy and reality have collided. Neither can remain pure any longer. Neither is safe from the other. When institutions fail in one, they fail in the other. Illness and corruption travel freely.

Suicidal life forms from other planets are already well known to us (as here and here). Now the contagion has spread even in the worlds of imagination!

Addendum: The pigs of Angry Birds are also electronic gaming-related suicidal misfits. Not only did they steal the birds' eggs in a deliberate act of wanton destruction sure to bring vicious reprisals upon themselves. No, they have also made hams their totem! Look! They go to such lengths, erecting massive, Byzantine structures, all to house the hams that used to be their own! How do we know the hams are theirs? Look at them! The hogs have been reduced to spherical, limbless, hamless heads!

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Look, we don't know whether this guy's a pimp or just some throwback zoot-suited hep-cat. But we do know he's looking awfully stylish for a pig who's about to be covered in sauce and cooked. Yes, he's smoking sa-mokin—as in nattily attired—but we know well the word's other senses, and so should the pig.

The worrisome truth is that the pig just doesn't care. Having been ushered into the comforting arms of denial, the pig sees only what's right in front of him.

He knows he has no future. He knows there are no golden years awaiting him. So why waste time on hope?

He can't change his fate—woe betide the pig who believes otherwise—so he busies himself with what he can control: his clothes. His look. His style. It's a trifling thing, but it's the only thing within his grasp, so he clutches at it like a log in a rushing river. It won't save his life, but it might save his soul.

So we'll say the only thing with any meaning at all: Looking sharp, pig.

Addendum (3/21/11): Yes, as Dr. Schnauzer points out in the comments, this pig is of course impersonating Jim Carrey's character from The Mask. Look, we can't be expected to notice everything.

Friday, March 18, 2011

From across the nation they come. Hopeful, flexing their amateur muscles, they come to Nebraska. It's a beautiful thing.

And while they are passionate, many are newcomers and could use some encouragement. Maybe they've come without their families. Perhaps their friends at home can't be bothered to check in for progress reports. Loneliness might prey on them and dull their barbecuing instincts.

No matter!

The Unholy Trinity—the cow, pig, and chicken who headline these events so often—will cheer them on.

From within the flames, they smile, projecting their goodwill. Thumbs-upping those who would cook and eat them, the animals would rather die than allow the competitors to go uncelebrated. Of course, you know, they'd, um... They'd rather die than do just about anything.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Not since famed self-hating cow Elsie fretted about humans and their love lives have we seen livestock with such weird priorities.

This pig—this paragon of gusto!—lobbies on behalf of a butchery concern that boasts of its ability to produce six million pounds of pig meat per week.

And why does he do it? What is the altar he throws himself upon? What star guides him into his afterlife?

It's all in the name of your potential for racking up sexual conquests. No, we don't understand why a pig—even a suicidal one—would give two grunts about what humans get up to in the bedroom. (Of course, we're not even addressing the dubious conclusion the pig draws in the first place.) It's enough to know that the thought of giving you your jollies gives him his. Your capacity for scoring means the pig's life—and, more importantly, his death—has meaning. Sort of.

Monday, March 14, 2011

True, when it comes to horrific menus, nothing can compete with Packard's. (We're sure to be proven wrong, but we'd like to postpone it as long as possible.) Still and all, Thee Pitt's "Again" does offer a sturdy example of madness by way of menu.

For instance, a Southwest lawman pig-type person (?) lounges in a hammock above the fire that will cook him. Oh, but it's nothing to get worked up about. Just a little burning and death! A cool glass of lemonade will see him to his eternal rest in comfort.

His stocking feet dangling over the flames, the lawman smiles knowing that his passing will afford you a pleasant dining experience.

Speaking of dying happily, this rattlesnake approaches his impending destruction with giddy good humor. He embraces the sign announcing his availability as a side dish with an affection bordering on the terrifying.

Snakes are such rare participants in this bloody ritual—we've seen only one other in all this time!—we confess we still haven't figured out what makes them behave the way they do.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

These are not ordinary pigs. These are not pigs who work from 9 to 5 and wash the car on Saturday. These are not pigs who install linoleum in the basement or head to the hardware store for a PVC S-trap. They don't go for walks in the cool of the evening. They don't run errands on Sunday.

These are special pigs. They have undergone rigorous training. They have pushed themselves to—past!—their limits.

And why? Why not live as ordinary pigs live?

Because, by setting themselves apart, by taking on challenges that would break lesser pigs, they have the chance to see things no living pig has seen! To experience life at its most intense and precious!

It is an honor they do not accept lightly.

Their mission is bittersweet. With lumps in their throats and a mixture of pride, fear, and anticipation, they approach their launchpad. Or, you know, lunchpad.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

They strut, they flex. They try to look their best. This is what all the hard work was for. The early mornings. Toughing it out through the pain. Going on in the face of doubt. Would they ever measure up? Would you ever look their way and give them the nod?

On the sand, they strike their poses, pop their muscles, show off the merchandise.

Never forget that these animals see themselves as objects. Not objects of admiration or inspiration. Not sex objects. (Let other animals—lots and lots of them!—inflame our sexual hunger.) No, they see themselves as food objects whose purpose is the stoking of our simplest hungers.

We confess almost total ignorance of this event and its $30,000. But we know enough to know the animals won't be seeing a penny of it. They know it, too. They're not in this for the money. It's something deeper for them, something more immediate. It's about the affirmation that they matter, the assurance that we care about them. Care enough to eat them, that is.

The cynics among us—and there could hardly be a less hospitable place for them than here!—would say their propensity for kicking comes principally from the rhyme of chicken and kickin'. Such simple-minded grouchitude.

No! They kick because they are so stuffed with happiness that they can't help it! All that positive energy must come out! It leaks, it trickles, it bursts out! And they kick! With wild, cheerful abandon they kick. It is the chickens' way of telling us, "I am alive! But not for long!"

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Diagnosis

What is Suicide Food? Suicide Food is any depiction of animals that act as though they wish to be consumed. Suicide Food actively participates in or celebrates its own demise. Suicide Food identifies with the oppressor. Suicide Food is a bellwether of our decadent society. Suicide Food says, “Hey! Come on! Eating meat is without any ethical ramifications! See, Mr. Greenjeans? The animals aren’t complaining! So what's your problem?” Suicide Food is not funny.